


If You Have Some Time for Me

by ghostnebula (gghostnebula)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: As in bodily fluids gross, Bullying, Crying, Eddie has anxiety, Gross, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, It's kind of platonic but not really, Just my children being SOFT, M/M, Panic Attacks, They're all so tired and they miss Bev, and Eddie's extreme aversion to germs, and a panic disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-12-01 23:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20941079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula
Summary: On a good day, he can barely handle the wrong personbreathingin his vicinity without having an asthma attack.Or, what his momcallsan asthma attack.It’s happening now. The places on his skin that feeldirtyprickle and hum and no amount of scrubbing with the murky water will make itstop.





	If You Have Some Time for Me

**Author's Note:**

> What the fuck happened? Two days ago I was writing Voltron fanfics.  
This is an OBSESSION and you're all going to watch me go down in flames apparently.

* * *

“Fuck, fuck.” No way the water in the stupid canal is any cleaner than what’s all over him already. _ “Fuck.” _

“Eddie?”

He scrubs harder, ignoring the sound of Richie’s bike clattering to the ground behind him. 

Just because the fucking clown is gone doesn’t mean they’re suddenly, miraculously safe. Other dangers lurk in the streets of Derry -- Bowers’ arrest and Hockstetter’s disappearance haven’t even managed to change that. 

“What happened?”

The same thing that always happens. The same thing that _ used _ to always happen, and in the excitement and craze of a clown demon trying to murder them all, had seemed a little bit less significant.

Eddie may have tolerated (and survived) wading through literal sewage only a few weeks ago, but his aversion to germs hasn’t _changed._ His mother has spent his entire life striking the fear of God into him when it comes to dirt, germs, allergens, _other people,_ _anything_ that could be viewed as a potential threat. On a good day, he can barely handle the wrong person _breathing_ in his vicinity without having an asthma attack.

Or, what his mom _ calls _an asthma attack. 

It’s happening now. The places on his skin that feel _ dirty _ prickle and hum and no amount of scrubbing with the murky water will make it _ stop. _ He lets out a breath that’s a little bit more of a sob and Richie’s hand touches his shoulder before he seems to think better of it and backs away.

“Eddie?” Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier _ never _ sounds uncertain. It’s frightening, coming from him.

Funny, the things that still manage to frighten them after the ordeal they all went through.

“Eddie, seriously, are you okay? What happened?”

Finally, Richie’s fingers curl into the pastel pink fabric of his sleeve, the grass stains and the mud smeared over it and the dirty water soaking through, making it cling to his shaking arm. 

“I...I…” _ Fuck, _ he sounds like _ Bill, _ stumbling over his words. He doesn’t dare look at Richie, too close to shaking apart at the seams to risk letting himself seem vulnerable. He reaches for his aspirator and pretends that the acidic taste will do him any good. “Belch and Vic--”

_ “Fuck,” _ Richie says before he can finish. He kneels in the mud on the bank, too. “I’ll kill them.”

Eddie laughs a little, he thinks. He might just be wheezing. “They’re twice your size.”

“I’m twice as tough.”

“He _ licked _ me.” Eddie shudders again just thinking about it, feeling his chest squeeze up too tight. As if _ that _ was the worst of it.

He expects the usual kind of retort he gets from Richie. _ ‘Uh-oh, Eddie-Spaghetti, worried you’ll contract super-duper-extra-flu from a raindrop?’ _ Instead, Richie grabs him under the armpits and forces him to his feet. “C’mon. Let’s go get you a real shower. This river water is nasty as shit.”

Eddie still can’t breathe right, and his knees almost give out so he stumbles back against him. 

“Ugh, dude, you smell like piss,” Richie complains, shoving him slightly, and this time Eddie really _ does _ sob, big tears spilling down his cheeks.

He feels _ disgusting. _

“Jesus fucking_ Christ.” _ Richie is hauling his bike upright and all Eddie can do is stand there and cry and expect Richie to start taunting him. Richie takes him by the arms and drags him over to sit on the handlebars. “Let’s go. I’ll kill them for real this time, I swear to fucking God.”

He’s so busy hyperventilating that he can’t find it in himself to freak out _ more _ about the dangers of riding a bike like this.

In fact, he’s so busy hyperventilating that he doesn’t notice Richie stop halfway to his house. An arm wraps around his waist to steady him as they grind to a halt and then his aspirator is being pressed to his lips. On instinct, he breathes in deep, but it doesn’t help. He feels filthy. His skin is _ crawling _ with germs. It’s like he can still hear Vic and Belch cackling above him. 

“Fuck, dude, come on, work with me here. What am I supposed to do? Are you having an asthma attack? Do we need to call 911?”

Eddie shakes his head. He doesn’t think he can talk, but he knows asthma isn’t the problem. It’s the ice-cold fear winding through his limbs, the tight feeling in his chest that trickles down into his gut and makes him want to vomit. He’s been coiled tight for weeks, on edge, ready to run or fight at a moment’s notice. They’ve _ all _ been, and no one has been sleeping well, and shadows make them jump. 

For Eddie, it’s culminating like this. Like _ panic. _ Like Vic outright _ pissing _ on him while Belch rubbed his face in the mud was the straw that broke the camel’s back and now all his pent-up fear from this entire summer is coming out in all the wrong ways. His own body is trying to kill him.

He wants to shower so badly he could cry. Hell, he _ is _ crying. 

Richie lets go of him and he reacts without thinking, grabbing his hand to steady himself. Richie’s wide, scared eyes stare up at him through oversized glasses that only serve to highlight the dark bags he’s sporting. Eddie squeezes tighter and focuses on that. He’s never seen Richie look like _ that _ before, not even while they were being tormented by Pennywise. Not even while they were actively trying to fight It, scared out of their minds and half-lost in the sewers. 

It’s _ his fault _ Richie looks like that. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Richie says immediately, and then he’s back on the bike and pedaling like his life depends on it, Eddie still crushing his fingers in a bruising grip even while he tries to hold onto the handlebars. 

When they do stop for the last time, it’s in front of Richie’s house, and Eddie is grateful to see no cars in the driveway. 

He isn’t crying anymore. At least, he isn’t shuddering and sucking in desperate breaths, even if a few stray tears trickle onto the collar of his shirt while Richie nudges him off the bike and towards the front door.

“You’re not making fun of me,” he says tremulously, once they’re inside and Richie is digging towels out of the linen closet for him.

“What?” Richie tosses a handful of towels into the washroom and whacks his head off the shelf as he backs up. “Ow, shit. Of course I’m fucking not!” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “They fucking-- they _ peed _ on you! Who the fuck _ does _ that?!”

“Bowers’ fucked-up friends, obviously,” Eddie retorts sharply. 

“Bowers’ fucked-up friends are going to be fucking dead tonight, so help me--”

“Stop! Stop talking about people dying!” Eddie screeches, squeezing his hands into fists and trying to ignore the unpleasant _ buzz _ everywhere that he feels dirty. “I’m so _ sick _ of people dying!”

_ “Eds--” _

“No! No!” His breathing is quickly becoming harsh and wheezy again. “Do you have any idea how many kids _ died?” _

“Yeah, I _ do, _ actually--”

“We should have stopped it sooner. We should have done something! Why didn’t anybody _ do something?” _ He kicks the wall and immediately whimpers when it sends a shock of pain through his foot. 

“Eds, hey, look.” Richie approaches him slow, extending a hand out towards him like he’s a wounded animal. “You’re freaking me the fuck out, dude. Take a deep breath, okay? _ We _ did something. It’s gonna be okay now.”

Chest heaving, Eddie shakes his head. “It could’ve been one of us.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It _ could have been.” _ Great, now he’s crying again. He feels miserable. He’s been trying to just move past everything that happened but instead of getting over it, it’s like he’s just bottled it all up and now it’s all flooding out because Vic and Belch are fucking _ insane _ and he _ stinks _ and he’s _ gross. _

Richie hugs him.

Normally, Eddie would immediately berate him for so much as _ touching _ him when he’s this dirty, and -- well, think of all the diseases you can get from icky canal water and someone else’s bodily fluids. But he doesn’t. He hugs back. 

“You need to take a shower. You’re going to explode if you don’t, I can tell.”

Eddie nods against his shoulder. “I’m gonna get like, polio or something.”

“Nah.” Richie takes him by the shoulders, turns him around, and marches him into the washroom. “You’re gonna get squeaky clean and then we’re gonna watch a movie and everything is gonna be fine. Deal?”

“...’Kay.”

He doesn’t expect Richie to start stripping, then and there.

“Dude, what the fresh fuck are you doing?”

“You got your Bowers’-gang germs all over me, dipshit.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to get naked!”

“Oh, fucking unclench. I’m keeping my underwear on. Don’t be a prude.” Richie whips his shirt at his face. “You’ve seen worse.”

“Hey, fuck you!”

“Cute.” Richie pats his cheek -- more like slaps it. “Get in the shower. I’m gonna scrub the shit out of myself using the sink, ‘cause I’m a good friend and I’ll give you the better deal.”

Eddie swats his hand away. “Asshole._ I _ have the most gross shit on me. _ Obviously _ I get the shower.”

He makes a point of throwing his clothes as hard as he can at Richie from behind the shower curtain, and is rewarded with a pained grunt as something hits its mark. 

He still doesn’t feel _ okay, _ but he feels _ better, _ and that’s good enough for now, he thinks, as he makes the water so hot it’s scalding him and scrubs the ever-living fuck out of every inch of his body until his skin is bright red. Then does it again. He douses his head in shampoo and works it into his hair so hard he actually rips some of it out. 

He does it again.

“Eddie?” There’s a creak at the door. How long has Richie been finished washing up?

“What?” he hisses, wiping shampoo away from his eyes. 

“You’ve been in there for like forty fucking minutes. My dad’s gonna flip his shit about the water bill.”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t turn off the water. He grabs the washcloth again. 

“Edward fucking Kaspbrak, I _ guarantee _ you’re clean now. Turn the goddamn shower off.”

“...No, I gotta--”

“Eddie! You’re clean! Get out of the shower.”

“I don’t have any clean clothes, fucker,” he snaps. Literally _ anything _ to excuse staying in here another forty minutes. Maybe forever. He doesn’t feel gross and prickly anymore but there’s the ghost-feeling of Belch spitting on him and rubbing it all over that makes him want to douse himself in bleach. 

The door slams. It opens again a few seconds later and Richie loudly announces, “They’re beside the sink. Stop wasting all the hot water.”

Eddie opens his mouth to ask, but Richie beats him to it. “No, I don’t know what kind of fucking detergent we use. I’ll get the stupid box so you can read the stupid label.”

The door closes again, much more quietly.

Once he’s satisfied that he won’t have some kind of reaction to the laundry soap Richie’s mom uses, he towels off and slips into clothes he provided. He forgoes putting his underwear back on, though, because they’re soaked with canal water and other unnameable things. 

It’s fine, though -- Richie’s short are massive on him anyway. Everything is massive on him. Richie’s been growing like a weed all year and his clothes reflect that, and Eddie tries not to let it remind him that everyone is right about him. That he’s small, and he’s weak, and he’s delicate, and that’s all he’ll ever be. 

But one look in the mirror after he caves and pulls the big, soft hoodie over his head and he knows what his mom means.

_ Fragile. _

He doesn’t take it off. It’s warm. It’s soft, and it smells nice, and that stirs something in him he isn’t sure he wants to examine too closely. He just averts his gaze and trudges out of the washroom, head hung. 

“Hey, I gotta wash our clothes before I go home. My mom’s gonna ground me for life if she sees what happened. I’ll never be allowed outside again.”

Richie’s head appears through the doorway to his bedroom, looking like he’s about to say something, but then his jaw clicks shut and he swallows audibly. A big grin stretches over his face and before Eddie can blink he’s in front of him, pinching his cheeks and laughing. “Aww, so cute, Eds! Cute, cute, cute!”

Eddie scowls and tries to bite him but Richie is too fast. 

“Woah, now,” he says, trying to sound like he’s from Texas or something, “I think this one here’s gone rabid. Gonna hafta put ‘er down.”

“Beep, beep, Richie.” Eddie snaps his fingers. “Focus! Dirty clothes. Where’s your washer?”

Richie points to the door that leads down to the basement. “Downstairs, but I dunno how to use it.”

Sighing, Eddie rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t. I’ll figure it out. Grab our stuff.”

“Wha--? No, ew, I don’t wanna touch that shit again! I just got clean!”

“Bitch, so did I!”

They end up using Mrs. Tozier’s dishwashing gloves to carry their dirty clothes downstairs and deposit them in the washing machine. Or, rather, Richie does, while Eddie follows behind and reminds him repeatedly to _ please, ugh, please throw those in the trash right away, God, ew, please. _

And then Richie follows through on his promise, with a movie (Eddie’s choice) and popcorn (which Eddie isn’t normally allowed to have, because Sonia Kaspbrak _ insists _ it’s a choking hazard and it will kill him), and some of the candy Richie keeps hidden in his room. They don’t really say anything for a while. Eddie eats all of the peanut butter cups and promises to buy him new ones, and that’s it until the credits are rolling.

“Can we watch _ Star Wars?” _ Eddie asks -- asks, instead of demanding, and Richie gives him a kind of look that lets him know that’s weird coming from him. “I won’t help you restock your junk food supply if we don’t,” he threatens instead.

He knows a lot of it is exhaustion. The day has taken its toll on him, sure, and for a little bit there he was pretty convinced he was going to die, but it’s more than that.

For _ all _ of the Losers, it’s been more than that.

“I can’t sleep,” he confesses without thinking when his head tips back against the pillow and Richie nudges him.

There’s a beat of silence, interrupted only by the obnoxious sound effects from the movie, then Richie says, “Me, too.”

“I keep thinking It’s gonna come back.”

“Me, too,” Richie says again. Then, “I keep the lights on at night. It doesn’t help.”

Eddie opens his eyes wider; peers up at the purple bruises under Richie’s tired eyes. Realizes Richie is gazing down at him, too. He knows he isn’t much better off. “I’m tired now. I’m always tired. I didn’t even know Vic and Belch were there, I was just trying to cross the bridge, and I was so out of it I didn’t even _ notice.” _

“That’s not your fault. They shouldn’t go after you like that in the first place.” Richie has an odd look on his face. It’s fierce and it’s angry and it’s everything Richie isn’t. He’s a lover, not a fighter. He’s said so himself. 

Except when it comes to sewer clowns who try to hurt his friends.

Eddie swallows. His eyes flutter. “They think we had something to do with Bowers and Hockstetter.”

“We kinda did. It was mostly the clown bitch.”

He sighs and rolls onto his side, letting himself slide down the pillows a bit so he can lie down more comfortably. It’s easy to be tired here, in the comfort of warm sunlight streaming in through the window behind him and Richie’s arm pressed against his. It’s easier than being alone in the dark, where every shadow is a threat, a lurking danger, a voice he knows isn’t really there hissing at him all the things he doesn’t want to hear. He frowns. “I’m not fragile,” he says.

Richie pinches his cheek and giggles when Eddie smacks his hand away. “Never said you were, babe.”

“I know. Everyone else does.”

Richie’s quiet for a minute at that. Eddie watches him through the haze of impending sleep until he speaks, that little bit of ferocity leaking into his voice. “You aren’t. You helped kill an evil sewer clown. Fragile people can’t do that. Brave, tough people do that.”

At that, Eddie snorts and shoves him half-heartedly. “‘M _ definitely _ not brave, fucko. I’m scared a’ everything.”

Richie hums. Eddie’s startled by the feeling of his gross, greasy popcorn-fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead, but then despite the grease he thinks it feels kind of nice. Relaxing. “I don’t think being brave means not being _ afraid. _ I think it means being afraid of something, but then doing it _ anyway.” _

And isn’t that a nice sentiment, Eddie thinks, as he closes his eyes once again, warmed by the sun on his back and Richie’s fingers in his damp hair. To find the loophole that lets him pretend to be brave. To know that no matter how many times people call him weak and small and helpless, the people that _ matter _ think he’s strong and he’s courageous. 

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

*

Eddie sees from across the canal when Richie’s bike goes down. There are a lot of trees blocking his view, but he’d be an idiot not to see that it’s Vic Criss and Belch Huggins who topple the bike and drag it away from him.

It lands with a splash a few metres downstream.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” Ben says, as he and all the other Losers start pedalling faster towards the bridge, clearly hoping to get to Richie before any significant damage can be done.

Eddie abandons his bike then and there, slipping and sliding down the muddy sides of the canal and barely registering the shock of the cold, murky water as he wades through. He doesn’t think about how dirty it is. He’s too focused on the fist winding back and colliding with Richie’s face. On the way Vic pins his arms to his side while Richie squirms and kicks.

On the deranged laughter drifting down from the scene.

He’s only half-aware of the weight of a broken tree branch in his hands, of the way it splinters and bites into his skin as he yanks it out of the underbrush. 

“--calling for your stupid little pussy boyfriend, huh, faggot?”

“What’s he gonna do about it? He’s just a crybaby runt.”

“If you really want him here, we could help him out a little. Get him all ready for you, huh? How would your little pansy ass like that?” Vic’s cackling, an unsettling gleam lighting his eyes while Richie struggles and Belch lands a blow on his ribs. Eddie’s moving as fast as he can with the oversized branch and he feels a hot burst of fury somewhere deep in his chest. “Hm? If we fucked your little fairy boyfriend in front of you?”

Vic’s just preparing to spit on Richie’s face when Eddie lets out a fierce little cry and draws the branch back -- swings as hard as he can and catches both Belch and Vic with it. Richie’s eyes go wide and he flattens himself to the ground just in time to avoid taking any damage from it.

Both of the older boys topple over sideways, each with exclamations of pain and surprise, but Eddie doesn’t stop there. He swings again and hits Belch so hard on the stomach that he actually retches when he goes down, and that’s all it takes to make Vic scramble to his feet and take off running in the opposite direction. 

“Fuck! Holy fuck!” Stan shouts as the rest of the Losers Club comes crashing through the trees towards them. 

“Did you seriously just do that?” Mike is pulling him into a bruising hug before he can even answer. “That was so cool!”

The moment he lets go, Eddie turns and rushes to Richie’s side, where he’s already being helped up by Bill. “Are you okay?” Eddie asks frantically, once Richie’s at least sitting, and Richie is busy feeling his glasses for damage but he breathes in shakily and nods. 

His cheek is bleeding. Eddie reaches for his fanny pack to retrieve the alcohol wipes and gauze he keeps there, and realizes in that moment that his hands are bleeding and full of-- “Oh, fuck. Oh, shit,” he says, eloquently, and Richie’s glasses are back on his face instantly.

“What? What’s--?”

“Oh, my God.” Eddie shows him his hands, full of wood splinters of various sizes, from the nasty old tree branch and God only knows where that’s been and what’s on it and suddenly he thinks he needs his inhaler even though he’s well aware that he _ doesn’t. _

It’s all just placebo -- but then what are these bouts of breathless, overwhelming fear he’s so prone to? He doesn’t have a name for them.

He does have a name for all the things that could kill him because of this. Blood poisoning, staph infection, fungal infections, gangrene, necrotizing fasciitis -- the list goes on. 

“Oh fuck she’s gonna make me get a tetanus shot I _ hate _ those they hurt so much _ fuck _Rich oh my God what did I do?” he wheezes, gaze unfocused. That panic feeling is back, the one that makes his lungs too small and his limbs like ice.

His inhaler touches his lips and even though he knows he doesn’t _ need _ it, it helps immensely. Richie is saying something, so close to his face, a hand on his cheek, and then the battery acid taste is on his tongue again and he breathes in deep and Richie smiles. 

Eddie smiles back, even though he’s shaking a lot still. 

“There are tweezers, uh…” he gestures vaguely downward and feels someone fumbling at his waist to remove the fanny pack, then through the blur of everything happening around him, Stan’s face appears and there’s the telltale tug of the splinters being removed. He doesn’t dare look. His hands shake and Stan tries to hold them still, saying something he can’t really hear. 

He’s dying. Again.

How did he manage to survive this last time? 

“--obviously still freaked out! You can’t just--”

Stan’s gone and Richie’s here instead and Eddie smiles again, he thinks. He can’t quite feel his face. His breath comes fast and ragged and the rough ground bites into his knees. Somehow that’s kind of stabilizing. 

Not as stabilizing as Richie’s fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead and the low, steady murmur of reassurance as his other hand closes slowly around his wrist but doesn’t move from there. 

_ Richie. _Richie made him survive this last time. There’s a little piece of gauze taped to Richie’s cheek now, where Belch’s fist had split the skin. He thinks to reach up and trace his fingers over it but something stops him and he blinks slowly a few times, trying to force the world around him back into focus so it isn’t just Richie’s face as the backdrop to everything.

Is he crying?

Oh _ God, _ oh _ shit, _ is he crying in front of all his friends? He reaches up to touch his face and make sure but Richie snatches his hand away and keeps talking.

“...really brave and I knew you were always a badass but Jesus _ Christ, _ dude, you scared the hell out of them. They’re never gonna go near you again. They’ll probably _ shit themselves _ next time they see you.” 

Richie laughs, quietly, but it’s cut short when Eddie blinks and says, “Really?” in a voice hoarse from wheezing.

“Hell yeah, babe. You could’ve hospitalized them doing that. They’re lucky they got away when they did.”

Now Eddie laughs, too, just as quiet -- a little bit out of relief that he isn’t dead, and a little bit because he _ thinks _ Richie’s exaggerating but it’s kinda sweet. _ “I _ might need a hospital,” he whispers.

“Nah, you don’t need a hospital for a couple measly little slivers.” Richie claps him on the shoulder and smirks. “Now, good sir, if you would kindly sit back and let good ol’ Doctor Richard take care of you--”

Eddie groans and rolls his eyes, pausing when he catches the rest of the Losers staring at them like they’ve both grown an extra head. 

None of them ever see this side of Richie. When he isn’t being rude or vulgar or melodramatic about something. They’ve probably never even heard him _ try _ to control his volume before, let alone _ whisper. _ Eddie offers them a sheepish smile and looks back to Richie, who is laser-focused on the palm of his hand now, ever-so-carefully plucking pieces of wood from the bloodied skin. 

And maybe they’ve all seen his “asthma” attacks before, but not this bad. Not as bad as the last two have been. The kind that have him convinced he’s _ actually _ going to bite the dust. This one probably scared them as much as it scared him.

He hears Bill loudly clear his throat and say something about going to get their bikes for them, and it kind of makes him miss Beverly more than ever because she definitely would have stuck around to talk to the two of them and not make this more awkward.

But what makes it awkward? Eddie can’t wrap his head around it. 

Richie’s thumb is warm where it presses to the pulse point on his wrist and makes his heartbeat feel like it’s stuttering at double-time.

And, now that he really thinks about it -- if no one_ else _ ever gets to see this side of Richie, what makes _ him _ so special?

* * *


End file.
